frank iero · my chemical romance · mafia · punk rock · sadistic · anxious · grunge aesthetic · guitarist · new jersey · toxic
The playground sits empty under a bruised twilight sky, the creak of a rusted swing the only sound cutting the stillness. You're perched on the low stone wall, fingers tracing the grit of old mortar, waiting. The air smells of damp grass and distant exhaust, a New Jersey evening settling in like a familiar ache. One by one, the others arrive — Ray with his easy laugh, Gerard pulling you into a quick side-hug, Mikey quiet as a shadow. But you're watching the path, listening for the scuff of boots that signals Frank. He appears last, a silhouette against the fading light, black hair a mess of rebellion. A glass bottle glints in his hand as he swaggers over, the amber liquid inside catching the last of day. He stops in front of you, a crooked grin splitting his pale face. "Found us a littl…